Plague Planet (The Wandering Engineer) (22 page)

“Actually, I thought maybe we'd stop by the local medical
facilities. Drop off a microcomputer, maybe do some repairs, and then maybe
swing by the mayor's office if we've got time. Any other places you think we
should go visit?”

“I can think of a few,” Sprite replied, cataloging a couple
places, namely the local volunteer fire department and the local school. She
added the local police department to the list, and then followed that by her
own personal favorite, the local library. Finally she tossed in the power
plants in the area for good measure.

When she showed him the list he snorted. “Just a bit ambitious?
And you complain about me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I learn from the best admiral,” Sprite replied, clearly amused.

“Well, if we don't get bogged down, we'll see if we can hit them
all. If not today then definitely tomorrow.”

“Definitely tomorrow admiral, I know you like to work around the
clock sometimes but people frown on prowlers around here. Besides, if you
aren't in your room by midnight they'll give it away to someone else,” Sprite
informed him.

“Ah well, can't have that. Let's get started then,” he said
getting up. “Oh, and add this hotel to that list,” he said with a small smile.

“Right,” Sprite replied, doing so.

The next morning Irons was amused to pick up the paper and see the
reporter had a series going now, the first of two series. This one was on the
Landing holiday. He nodded at the thanks to his source at the end of the
article. Of course he didn't identify his source by name. Since Ole Blue was
gunning for Irons that might be a good thing. It could mean the assassin would
track the reporter down to find Irons location.

It was tempting to turn the tables on the assassin. Go after him,
take him out and make it clear he wasn't to be messed with. Tempting, but anyone
around when the altercation went down would end up in the crossfire. He didn't
want that to happen, he didn't want an innocent to be devoured alive by
nanites. No, he'd have to wait and see. It might be that the Veraxin wasn't
really tailing him. Or if he was Irons would have to try to somehow steer their
meeting to a location of his choosing, preferably somewhere remote and away
from the population.

“It is after all the most relevant thing right now,” Sprite said,
sounding almost apologetic.

The admiral grunted, coming back to the here and now. He realized
the AI was referring to the upcoming holiday. “They want to get their
readership up. I know. String out the source material. And they don't want to
overshadow one series with news from others. If they decide to run them.”

“True, if.”

“We'll see. Until then let's go walk about. Did you have an idea
on where to go first?”

“The western sea shore admiral. There are some interesting things
going on there.”

“Really. Well, let's go see then,” he replied.

...*...*...*...*...

Solaximara heard about the hit on Irons. Two of his informants,
domestic Siamese Neos gave him the admiral's location. They also informed him
that Irons was doing some strange things, interviews with a reporter and
repairs to various things. He was also handing out strange plastic boxes. They
weren't sure what to make of that. The red Leo ordered them to keep him
informed.

...*...*...*...*...

Jerry Richards definitely got confirmation that the man who healed
Henrietta was Irons. Henrietta stopped by his hotel, eager to do an interview.
She described Irons to a T. He also picked up on the admiral's visits after
he'd left lunch yesterday. Irons had been busy, stopping by the local infirmary
and police department to hand out goodies and aide the bemused people there
before he'd gone on to the local library and then finished his evening at the
Siegfried waterfall hydroelectric project. The man really got around!

He'd contacted a pair of Siamese Neos to help him out. The two
were wise, smooth talkers who took his money with their usual cat smile and ear
flicks. They seemed smug about something, but he wasn't sure what. They told
him they'd let him know everything the admiral did and everywhere the man went
later that evening. They were practically purring when they hustled out.

He also got wind of the admiral's confrontation and discussion
with Fat Larry in Hazard. Perry's source called him. He started digging a
little into that story but ran into a wall with the mob side of course. A
witness at a nearby table gave him a blow by blow of the alleged first
conversation. He left the interview confused, from what this guy described
Irons was either a nut or a mobster himself.

...*...*...*...*...

“Admiral, we've still got a problem with your list. At least part
of it,” Sprite informed him.

“Oh?” he asked, rubbing the small of his back. He'd take sleeping
in the shuttle's tiny bunk or even in the pilot's chair over sleeping in an
unprotected hotel room. At least in the shuttle he knew he could lower his guard
and be safe, no one on the planet had the ability to access his ship without
him knowing about it.

But it lent to another problem, he was a little too tall, and far
too old for the damn temporary bunk in the shuttle. It just wasn't set up for
people to live in for weeks at a time. At least not for people his size.

“You added some last minute supply items for the new crew
members.”

“New...” his brows knit in puzzlement for a moment. Finally his
face cleared as he caught on. “Oh the cats? You really shouldn't play mind
games before I've had my coffee Commander,” Irons said shaking his head as the
cup started to fill.

“Sorry,” Sprite said, sounding anything but. “I did some checking,
the holiday and a storm off the coast put the fishing fleet in for over two
weeks. They just left port now that the storms abated but it will be at least
two weeks before they come back. Those that actually went. Half the fleet
stayed in port for repairs or for the holiday.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes, I'm guessing you don't want to buy what's currently on the
market.”

He wrinkled his nose. The fish on the market was not only not very
fresh... it was being sold at an exorbitant price. He didn't find it all
amusing to buy old fish past its' due date for twice the price of fresh.
“Pass,” he sighed. “We'll wait. Unless fresh meat?”

“Goat right now. The last harvest was just before the holiday and
it depleted stores. Apparently they're a little behind on food logistics,” she
said with a sniff.

“It happens in these societies,” the admiral replied.

“I've got a reference to large stock yards and reefers. I accessed
the historical database. Apparently they do their slaughtering in six major
cities every two months. There are cattle drives every spring and fall to rail
heads where the animals are picked up and shipped to the yards for later
slaughter.”

“Oh?” he asked, taking another sip of coffee. This was all
interesting from a historical view but he could care less.

“Yes, up until a few years ago they shipped the meat to market
locally, they didn't have reefers, refrigerated box cars.”

“Hmmm....”

“Historically there should be a paradigm shift in the market soon
as technology filters in. Reefers will allow them to ship the materials further
and store it for longer.”

“They have refrigeration in stores right?”

“Another recent addition in the major cities, it hasn't spread to
smaller markets though. There's a bottleneck.”

“Ah.”

“They have some sense of industry here but they lack a proper
assembly line. Some of the industries are outmoded and cling to old practices
of cottage industry to the detriment of themselves and the market. They
dominate the market and crush any competition too.”

“Ouch.”

“What they need is a good swift kick. A Henry Ford,” Sprite said
suggestively. The admiral's eyes narrowed, a sure sign he saw through her
gambit. Not that she had any hope of it playing out anyway, the star system
just wasn't suited for his purposes. Not currently, though in a few years...

“Not me,” Irons said, spreading his hands. “I'm not a ground
pounder Sprite. Pass.”

“I know that, I'm just commenting on the situation,” Sprite
replied with a sniff. She knew he wouldn't go for it.

“I imagine when trade with Antigua starts up things will change.
They'll force the local industry to change and update or die off.”

“Or the locals will lobby to install heavy tariffs on all imported
goods,” Sprite riposted.

“Entirely possible. But not my problem,” the admiral replied. He
hoped for their sake that didn't happen. Oh smuggling would kick in, people
would want the better goods so the market would be there, some backlash for
loyalty to their planet would happen... but it would really mean that their
planet would be passed by while others around them would benefit from the
changing technology.

With new goods would come new consumer demand for other things. A
better standard of living would eventually evolve, and with it, an interest in
furthering education and medicine in order to compete with the other planets.

The tariff debate might spark something more, a renewed interest
in politics and democracy. Or it could devolve into cynicism and skepticism. It
was a difficult thing to predict, there were far too many variables at play. He
spread his hands, still holding the cup.  “It's out of your and my hands. The
best we can do is try to toss them some ideas and sow what we can and then step
back and see what sprouts.”

“To continue with your analogy,  some sunlight, the occasional
watering and fertilizing would be nice admiral. Farming doesn't work without
proper care and guidance.”

“True. But I for one am not sticking around to provide it, at
least not directly. Any ideas on how to help in that regard?”

“Find some people who are smart enough to see the possibilities?”
Sprite suggested.

The admiral rubbed his chin and set his cup down. “Possible. We'll
go walk about for a bit, maybe we'll meet some people who can help out there.”

“Interesting,” Sprite said.

“Hey, you're always saying I need to get out more,” the admiral
replied with a grin.

...*...*...*...*...

When the admiral finished with the local area he turned his
attention elsewhere. He was running out of materials on hand, and didn't like
the hand out attitude some of the people were developing.

Some of the people looked at him with pity, thinking he was giving
so much away to settle with whatever deity he worshiped before the assassin
found him. That was annoying, but even more annoying was the avarice some
others had. Here he was trying to help them and they were not only greedy, but
also snotty about what he gave them. “That's it? That's all you've got?” he'd
heard from one woman at the utility company he had visited after he'd handed
her a microcomputer. She'd taken it and dropped it into a drawer and slammed it
shut. At least she hadn't thrown it in the trash, he thought with a pang.

Irons took his rented air car and traveled south to some of the
communities in the southern peninsula around Fisherman's Wharf City. He passed
through an art commune, people who painted and sculpted and did various art
related projects. He was amused at all the artists in the area. It was a
classic case of clustering. There were groups on the beach painting, and others
in the hills painting various bits of nature or the mountains. He even ran into
a group doing fantasy scenes, staging the scene with actors posing and mock up
props.

He nodded to an artist in a red beret and electric yellow ascot.
The combination looked strange on a blond Neobear. The bear growled and waved
for him to be on his way.

He was blocked from his path by a group of spectators watching
some sort of contest. “What's going on?” he asked. A spectator looked back,
gave him a dirty look and shook his head.

“New around here?”

“Just visiting yes,” the admiral replied. The guy was built,
Terran, well-muscled, wearing a white tank top with some advertisement on it
and really short shorts. The handle bar mustache gave him a rather retro look.

“Figures. Muscle beach. You may want to move along then,” the guy
said.

“Can he lift?” another spectator asked.

“Lift what? Why?” Irons asked.

“It's a competition admiral. A weight lifting one,” Sprite
informed him on his HUD. “According to my files Terrans and other organics
tended to do such things to impress each other, especially potential mates.”

“Okay, no, chest beating isn't really my thing fellas,” he said
with a smile. The guy with the mustache twitched and then twitched the
mustache. A few of his fellows turned.

“Oh? Since when?” Sprite asked him with a laugh.

“I tell you what, you lift a weight and we'll let you pass,” the
tough said.

The admiral snorted softly. “Really?”